


Swinderniana

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance conversation with Boromir tells Aragorn who he’s meant for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swinderniana

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Basically, in a world where when your soulmate is born their name appears on your body as a sort of tattoo thing, or if they're older than you it appears when you come of age for your race or, Aragorn and Faramir have each other's names. Faramir has always been super secretive about his (maybe they're in an easy place to hide?) and Boromir doesn't know why but he doesn't know who Faramir's is. So on the Fellowship quest Boromir is telling Aragorn about home and what it's like, and he's just like, "Yeah and my little brother Faramir etcetc" And Aragorn's completely taken aback because this guy's little brother is his soulmate really? What happens from there is up to you, the fic doesn't even have to involve Aragorn and Faramir meeting, though it could. I just want Boromir mentioning Faramir's name and clueing Aragorn into exactly who his soulmate is. Bonus if Boromir finds out from Aragorn somehow, either by accident or on purpose, that he's Faramir's soulmate” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/2320.html?thread=3458064#t3458064).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The fellowship of the ring takes its first chance at a river, stripping down to bathe when the sun’s nearly set and there’s no point going on. A week out of Rivendell, and they smell as bad as they look, covered from head to foot in dirt with hair too matted for finger-combing, except of course for Legolas, who sometimes ties in fresh braids as though just to mock them. Aragorn once catches Boromir examining his chin in the reflection of a knife, but when Aragorn casually remarks, “The stubble looks good on you,” Boromir opts not to shave it. 

The hobbits go rushing into the river almost right away, stripping down to nothing, Merry and Pippin first, then Sam sheepishly following, and Frodo hiding behind bushes to shed his own clothes. Gimli ties his beard up in a giant knot before he joins them, and Gandalf steps a toe in the river, shakes his head, and then goes off to keep watch. More than a couple eyes watch Legolas as he shimmies delicately out of his tunic and breaches, diving into the water like a swan. 

Aragorn, who’s never been clumsy, feels half as graceful in comparison. He picks a secluded spot away from Gimli’s loud singing and Merry and Pippin’s frantic swimming, and he sinks down to his shoulders. The water’s somewhat cool, but there air’s warm enough that he doesn’t mind. Not that he’s picky. He’s bathed in far worse places with far worse company, and he tries to enjoy the quiet break. 

But Boromir, perhaps unsurprisingly, chooses to join him. Boromir wades about for a bit, as though just to stretch his broad muscles, but then finds a ledge to sit on next to Aragorn. It’s raised higher, so that Aragorn can just barely see the top of his soulmark scrawled across his heart, the water lapping just beneath. “Tauriel,” Aragorn reads aloud, just for conversation. Boromir glances down like he’d forgotten, then nods his head.

With a sigh, he says, “I confess disappointment that I found no such woman in Rivendell; I had hoped I might meet her on this journey.”

A fair wish. Aragorn, who’s explored far more of Rivendell than Boromir will have gotten to, wracks his memory for such a name but draws nothing. Though the name sounds vaguely Elven, Aragorn wouldn’t think one would be the soulmate of a mortal man, and elves, at the moment, are the only other residents of his home. Gondor, as one of the larger populations, would’ve seemed a likely spot for Boromir’s soulmate to be, but it must not be so—surely any woman who heard the name of the steward’s eldest son and had it written across her chest would come running to the capitol. Still, there are other places to look, as Aragorn well knows, and he muses, “There is time yet.” 

“True,” Boromir concedes, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Though I don’t imagine we will have time for many inquiries.” Then the smile fades, replaced with a frown and a look off in the distance. “I suppose I remain in the same boat as my brother. He never complains for loneliness; I should not.”

Loneliness is a sad topic. Aragorn, older than Boromir seems to realize, is very familiar with it, though he’s grown up surrounded by loving elves. He’s known from the start that the name tattooed on his skin is a mortal one, likely far away from his safe haven. Perhaps to change the subject or just to lighten the mood, Aragorn says, “I did not know you had a brother.”

It works. Boromir grins and looks back at Aragorn instantly, his handsome face awash in fond memories. The last rays of the fallen sun and the glow of the stars dance in his brown hair and make his eyes glisten, his voice full of _pride_ as he declares, “I do. A great ranger of the south, my little brother, excellent with both sword and bow. Perhaps not as much as his big brother, but he has other qualities—he is wise and very kind. If I am the captain that leads the fight, he is the captain that watches over the people.” Then he pauses, face abruptly falling, and he shakes it, leaning back against the rock to add bitterly, “It is such a shame that our father cannot see it.” He doesn’t elaborate further, but Aragorn can read much from the depth of Boromir’s frown.

He suggests, “Perhaps he will someday find his soulmate is a great queen, and your father will be forced to both regret and repent.” Boromir, as intended, snorts. His shoulders shake with a quick laugh, but then his head shakes.

“I wouldn’t know,” he admits. “I would have liked to look out for both of us on this quest, but alas, Faramir has never shown his mark to me.” Aragorn freezes instantly, though Boromir, looking out at the gently rippling water, crawling by in its slow current, goes on, “He always keeps his shirt on when I am around. I cannot image why, but I can only hope it is not because he thinks himself unworthy of whatever woman he is meant for—he has been told it too many times.”

Aragorn needs a moment to think, to digest what he just heard, but then Boromir looks back at him, and he finds himself trying to contribute. “Perhaps it... it could be more than that.”

“What could it be?” Boromir asks, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. 

“Perhaps it is a man’s name, and that might be difficult.” He’s been gone from Gondor too long. He doesn’t know the policies. He doesn’t know how the people think, how they feel.

When he looks at Boromir, Boromir nods slowly, confirming the guess. “That is a possibility... although if so, I wish he would not have felt the need to hide it from me. Our father would throw a fit, yes, but I would love him still. He should know that.”

“He is that wonderful?” Aragorn asks, merely to draw this out, to give himself time to judge how much he should reveal. It’s a long walk to Gondor, and perhaps he can’t go to Gondor, and he’ll have to lie asleep by this man he still barely knows, handsome and rugged but glinting, perhaps, with a want for Gondor to hold _power_. The sad smile that slowly comes to Boromir’s face erases many of Aragorn’s worries. 

“There is no one in this world as lovable as Faramir.” The look Boromir gives Aragorn is genuine; he _means_ it. Aragorn still says nothing, and Boromir shifts again, leaning back so that the water half-covers his mark, his arm reaching back to rest on the grassy bank. “What of you, then? Have you found your one yet? Or are you like me, hoping to discover such on this quest?”

Aragorn still doesn’t answer. But then, with a wearying sigh, he concedes that this will come out sooner or later, and there is no sense in hiding it now—it would be too close to a lie and gain him nothing. So Aragorn turns to face Boromir properly, placing his own arm on the bank, and uses it as leverage to lift himself up, enough to pull his chest out of the water. The droplets trickle down, some still beaded along the scrawled name that marks his heart. Boromir’s eyes flicker down, and then they widen slightly along the edges. He says nothing either. Aragorn, at first, can’t read his reaction, beyond the initial surprise.

“I am no queen,” Aragorn admits, true in at least some sense, “but I would wish to treat your brother well.” He always thought _Faramir_ a beautiful name, and it’s pleasing to hear that that beauty extends to the person who bears it, though it’s awkward to learn as much from the older brother. 

As Aragorn settles back again, Boromir says, “You had better.” Tightly, stiff and not quite _warning_ but close, Boromir adds, “He is worth all of Gondor’s other treasures combined.”

Aragorn answers simply, “I would like to meet him someday.” Boromir just nods.

Then they sit in silence for a few minutes, Aragorn deep in thought and Boromir likely the same, neither of them having anything more to discuss on the difficult topic, at least, not now. They’re saved from it when Frodo paddles up to them, cutely bobbing up and down in the river to try and stay afloat—the current, which barely effects Aragorn and Boromir’s sturdy bodies, is clearly a greater drain on hobbits, and Frodo is particularly little. He asks with his big sparkling eyes and dark bangs slicked down around his forehead, “Do you mind if I hide here?”

Boromir asks, “From what?” but doesn’t need an answer—they both look down the river, to where Merry and Pippin are having something of a water fight, splashing up a storm that poor Gimli is alternately trying to escape from and conquer. Legolas watches demurely from the sidelines, unaffected by whatever waves hit him. Sam is hidden a little past them, hunched down in the water all the way to his nose. 

Aragorn and Boromir shuffle a little apart, allowing Frodo a place at the bank to cling on to. He exposes the tip of his pale chest as he does it, and Boromir glances down, eyebrows lifting. Aragorn’s seen Frodo bare before and can’t help but grin knowingly, asking in a respectful whisper, “Are you also wishing to keep some distance and safety from exposing your soulmark’s name?” Frodo wouldn’t be the only one; Sam’s clearly trying to stay as buried as possible, no matter how unstable his friends make the water. It’s a pity, really, at least in Aragorn’s opinion—the quest would surely be easier if they knew they could be sharing bedrolls.

But it’s not his place to reveal that to them, and so he gives Boromir a subtle look to communicate their silence. Blushing behind a small smile, Frodo admits, “Gentlehobbits don’t usually bathe like this in public.”

“BORO—” Pippin shouts suddenly, only to be swallowed in spluttering as Merry capsizes him. The alarm is enough to draw Boromir’s eye. 

Glancing back to Aragorn and Frodo, he sighs, “It seems I’m needed,” and so he swims off, leaving Aragorn and Frodo alone with one another and the names of men perhaps not so far out of reach as they thought, yet perhaps made void by this quest.

* * *

The two towers weigh heavy on Aragorn’s mind, but the name over his heart burns steady amidst it. He thinks of Sam and Frodo, off together, probably knowing now and _happy_ , even as hunted as they are, as mired in fear and danger. The man meant to be in Aragorn’s arms lives so very _close_ that sometimes Aragorn hopes he’ll hear the soft, barely-there footsteps of a ranger on the wind. He resents now that he spent so long in Rivendell, comfortable and safe, when Faramir was _out there_ , and perhaps he could’ve met his soulmate next to Boromir’s warm smile.

Now Boromir’s gone, and his little brother is just a shadow out of Aragorn’s grasp. _Gondor_ is a thing he wants but can’t have. It’s caught between the two powers that ravage the land, but Faramir is a dream he’s never met and Merry and Pippin are friends whose faces he knows, who’s well-being he swore to himself he would protect. He leads the hunt on, knowing that even should he find them, there could still be much to keep him away.

It won’t forever. Someday, he’ll return to the throne he was meant to claim, and he’ll meet the man he’s meant to love. For now, he stirs from his restless pain and rouses Gimli. Legolas stands at the ready, fair hair blowing in the subtle wind and body in a trance, like resting but not sleep, eyes alive. The three of them go on again, following the ghost of tracks that twist sharply away from everything he wants. 

He moves, every day, farther from _Faramir_ , and he regrets every step, but goes on.

* * *

The return of the king brings much change to Gondor. There’s so much in motion the first week that Aragorn understands why Faramir never comes to him, why they only exchange faint glances across corridors or a fleeting look here and there in court. Faramir occasionally gives him meager smiles but no more, none that reach his eyes, even though Faramir knows his name and must, therefore, know that Aragorn is _his_.

Yet each day passes with Faramir first to leave from court, quickest to pass in chance meetings, and never with him alone. For all the cheer that victory and the smiles of his surviving friends gave him, this wound brings him back to the graves of the fallen and the tattered remnants of homes, and his heart is heavy.

Then he’ll see Faramir, if only for a moment, and his chest will clench and his skin will grow hot, his _want_ swelling: Faramir is _beautiful_. He is loved, is strong, is gentle in tongue but wise in mind, and the scent of him alone drives Aragorn _wild_. When Aragorn was very young, before the ink marring his flesh had formed into anything legible, he didn’t think a simple word could truly denote a _soulmate_ , but he believes it now. He lies awake at night thinking of the handsome prince sleeping only a few doors down, _Aragorn’s_ name etched on his skin, and it seems a chasm greater than the gates of Mordor.

Finally, when two weeks pass, Aragorn can’t take it any longer. He has Faramir summoned to him, privately, personally, not to the throne but his chambers, where they can speak, hopefully, with truth, however painful. He needs to know why when he looks into Faramir’s alluring eyes, Faramir looks away.

He half expects Faramir not to come. But eventually a knock raps on his door, and a quick call to, “Come,” has a servant ushering Faramir in. The door seals shut behind him, and Faramir stands modestly by the door, eyes down to the carpet. 

Aragorn wants to _touch_ him, wants to take his hand and guide him closer, but that’s a line that Faramir’s actions say he can’t cross. So he bids, “Come here,” soft and not commanding, pleased when Faramir obeys. 

He takes measured strides across the room and stops several steps from Aragorn, still with no eyes for anything but the floor. Aragorn’s chambers are hardly lavish, but he would think them more interesting than that. He asks, tentative to match, “Why have you not come to me?”

Faramir’s brows knit together, and he finally glances up—their eyes connect and, Aragorn thinks, ignite. But Faramir merely asks, “...Why would I, my king?”

Aragorn’s taken instantly aback. The title, for some reason, _stings_ in this context. In a moment of hesitation, Aragorn asks, “What name do you bear?”

“Yours,” Faramir answers simply. Aragorn knew it, but the confirmation takes away the only explanation he had. Aragorn doesn’t know what else to say. It should be known.

When the silence stretches too long, awkward and uncomfortable, Faramir lets out a little sigh. His shoulders slump with it, his face tilting to the side. With a sad smile gone in an instant, he murmurs, “We can never be, my king. I know that.”

In his shock, Aragorn can only ask, “Why?”

Faramir lets out a single, bitter laugh. “Please, do not humour me. I have known from the minute your name formed that I would be alone. My father would never let me lie with a man. And now that I know you are king... that only confirms it. I am a simple man, my king. You have given me a title, but it is one I would never have but for your hand.”

Aragorn almost replies, _‘is my hand not law?’_ but doesn’t. He can see the bigger issues, spoken what seems so long ago by a brother that loved Faramir deeply. It pains Aragorn to know how right Boromir was. The familiar guilt twists in Aragorn’s stomach—he should’ve come sooner. Denethor kept Gondor strong, but he whittled away its greatest asset. 

For a moment, Aragorn thinks of how to discredit all of that. Instead, he takes a step closer, as if drawn by their connection. Faramir’s eyes, having drifted away, dart back to him. Aragorn asks quietly, “Do you not want me?”

Faramir looks almost incredulous and returns just as softly, “Of course I do.” A grin twitches at the corner of Aragorn’s lips at the implied praise.

He takes another step. “Am I not attractive?”

Faramir, now close enough to touch, lets out a shaky breath. Another step, and there’s no room to take anymore. Their boots nudge one another. The scent of Faramir alone fills Aragorn with such _longing_ that he can barely restrain himself. Faramir murmurs, “Like no other.” After a short pause, likely driven on by Aragorn’s boldness, Faramir admits, “You are the most handsome being I could have devised, and I have seen your valour, your strength, your wisdom, and your heart for myself. Please, do not think that my restraint is any folly of your own, my king.”

Aragorn didn’t think that. He knew these words would come, but they still touch him. He breathes back, “My prince,” and watches the subtle shiver that curls down Faramir’s spine. He wonders if Faramir, who now uses only titles, cried Aragorn’s name alone at night, the way Aragorn has often done for him. Lifting a hand to slip against Faramir’s cheek, Aragorn insists, “You are all these things and more. And you are so _beautiful_ that I can hardly restrain myself around you. I desire you more than you could possibly imagine—I always have, and I yearned for it all the more when your brother first spoke of you to me, but now that I have seen you for myself, I can hardly bear to be apart. Now... why exactly do you deny me that?”

Faramir looks stunned. Aragorn wants desperately to connect their mouths but forces himself to wait. Faramir seems to stumble with words, then finally says, “You... forgive me, but you cannot bear children...? I cannot... you are king; how could we...”

“There are plenty of orphans in need of a good home in Gondor,” Aragorn answers easily, having thought of this himself, “or one of us could lie with another—there are ways. But should we not discuss the matter of children _after_ we have at least held one another properly?”

Faramir blushes, so attractive even in his embarrassment, and he shakes his head, then quickly darts his hand up to catch Aragorn’s before it can dislodge. The contact—Faramir’s soft palm over his strained knuckles—gives Aragorn a jolt of pure _delight_. “I am sorry,” Faramir mutters, “I just... I always thought I would be alone. I was not prepared for this.”

Aragorn murmurs, “I have waited for you all my life,” and leans in, pleased when Faramir tilts to meet him, waiting at the ready.

Aragorn closes the gap. He lips brush over Faramir’s, so very soft, the jut of his nose and the tickle of his stubble pressing into Aragorn’s own, his fingers tightening around Aragorn’s hold. Aragorn slips his hand past so that his fingertips can tangle in Faramir’s hair, his body surging forward, still closed but more pressure, his mouth sealed tightly against Faramir’s—he can’t taste yet but he can _feel_ , and Faramir lets out a quiet moan, his lips parting for Aragorn to take.

Aragorn slips his tongue inside. He still doesn’t unleash, though the passion claws at him, just explores, almost curiously, the taste of his new lover’s mouth. Every sensation is pure _ecstasy_ to him, to be savoured and delighted in, and Faramir kisses him back just as gently, the two of them lingering for as long as they can. He doesn’t want to let go.

But he does, only enough to press their foreheads together, and he promises, “You are everything I ever wanted.”

Faramir breathes, “ _Aragorn_.”

Now Aragorn takes his hand, smiling with delight, and guides him deeper inside.


End file.
